


Arms and the Boy

by schweet_heart



Series: Merlin Fic [92]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - World War I, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, Happy Ending, M/M, Missing Persons, Missing in Action, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-24
Updated: 2017-11-24
Packaged: 2019-02-06 06:53:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12812055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schweet_heart/pseuds/schweet_heart
Summary: WW1 AU. Arthur has grown used to the rest of his men knowing things before he does; now that they’re in the rest camp and have consistent communication with the British High Command, the normal hierarchy of things has ostensibly resumed, but not even the best of news can travel ahead of Gwaine and his ever-listening ears.Sequel tountil this morning, and this snow.





	Arms and the Boy

 

“He’s alive.” 

 

“What?” Arthur’s pulse stops for half a second, then picks up again with a faster rhythm. “Say that again.”

 

“Merlin’s alive.” Gwaine is grinning at him through the doorway of his tent, his expression jubilant. “We’ve just had word. He was injured in that last scrap and spent the past few months in a POW camp, that’s why he hasn’t been in touch. He escaped just last week.”

 

“Is he all right?”

 

“As far as I know. They’re sending him back to us, at any rate.” The moue of Gwaine’s lips shows what he thinks of military care and courtesy in that regard, and Arthur can’t help but agree. They’ll be lucky if Merlin shows up in one piece — or at all. “He’s coming in tomorrow with the supply truck, or so Leon says.”

 

Arthur has grown used to the rest of his men knowing things before he does; now that they’re in the rest camp and have consistent communication with the British High Command, the normal hierarchy of things has ostensibly resumed, but not even the best of news can travel ahead of Gwaine and his ever-listening ears. Still, it always pays to be certain. 

 

“Are you sure we’re talking about the same Merlin Emrys?” Arthur asks, putting down his pen. “I don’t want to write to his mother only to find out we’ve got the wrong man.”

 

“Cross my heart and hope to live to a ripe old age,” Gwaine says, letting go of the flap to trace an extravagant cross over his chest. “I wrung the news out of Leon just a few minutes ago, and he heard it from Merlin himself. You know I wouldn’t tell you if I weren’t sure.”

 

At this, Arthur manages a smile. “I suppose not.” With trembling fingers, he reaches for his cigarette case and picks one out at random, his eyes on his hands but his mind already racing ahead, anticipating Merlin’s return. “Cigarette? I owe you a couple, if I recall.”

 

“Don’t mind if I do.” Gwaine looks more closely into Arthur’s face. “Are you all right, Princess? You’re looking a bit green around the gills, if you don’t mind my saying.”

 

“Just tired, I expect,” Arthur says, shaking out the match and inhaling in a short, shallow breath. “A few nights of proper sleep and I’ll be fine.” He straightens his shoulders, trying to will his cheeks into a healthier colour. It always seems to be Gwaine who finds him when he’s in no fit state to be seen; God knows what the man must think of him. “If you don’t mind, I have some work to do. Was there anything else?”

 

“No, that’s all.” Gwaine shakes his head. His expression is one that is difficult to read, but Arthur thinks it looks a lot like pity. “I’m off to tell the others the good news – it was only that Leon said I should come to you first.”

 

“Right. Well, thank him for me, will you?” Arthur says, and picks up his pencil once again.

 

As soon as Gwaine is gone, however, he drops the writing implement back to his desk and runs his hand through his hair, stubbing out the barely-touched cigarette against the edge of his desk. He can’t imagine why he should be so jittery, unless it’s with excitement; he’s spent so long believing the worst that he doesn’t quite know how to react to finding out it isn’t true after all. He pictures Merlin as he had last seen him, the cheeky, devil-may-care grin just before they’d gone over into no-man’s-land. He had always been so stupidly confident, as if he didn’t believe it was possible for anything bad to happen to them despite having daily proof that death does not play favourites. Arthur wishes he could shake the man in retrospect, but without having Merlin in front of him the most he can do is resort to pacing the confines of his tent, lighting cigarette after cigarette without quite smoking them as he waits for morning to come.

 

The supply truck arrives just after dawn, pulling up into the quadrangle before an expectant crowd. News has obviously spread fast, and Merlin was well liked among the ranks: even those who would usually resent the early hour have turned out to see him, perhaps eager for the spectacle, perhaps encouraged by the prospect of a man returning from the dead. Arthur himself hangs back, watching from a discreet distance as the vehicle stops, rattles, and finally halts to disgorge a familiar figure in outsized army fatigues. 

 

Even from this distance, Merlin is thinner than Arthur remembers, the fine bones of his face visible under his pale skin. One arm is bandaged and held awkwardly against his chest, presumably to avoid being jostled, and there is a haunted expression in his eyes that Arthur does not like, but otherwise he seems almost unchanged. The others gather around him, reaching out to touch, and Arthur has an instant’s superstitious fear that whatever good fortune has brought him this far will be stripped away by so much eager handling.

 

“About time you caught up with us!” Arthur hears Gwaine’s voice call over the general hubbub. “We thought you’d gone West for certain this time, mate!”

 

“Takes more than a few Germans to get rid of me,” Merlin responds with an easy smile, but he isn’t looking at Gwaine, scanning the sea of faces with obvious anxiety until he reaches Arthur. Their eyes meet. Arthur can see some of the tension lift from Merlin’s face, his worry clearing like the dispersal of a clinging fog. Arthur nods back, too winded even to smile, his heartbeat turned machine-gun quick in the hollow of his throat and the turn of his wrists, heat rattling through him like mortar fire. There will be time, later, to hear Merlin’s story from his own lips and to berate him for his recklessness; for now, however, it is enough that he is home.


End file.
